


long as you know who you belong to

by ymirjotunn



Category: Borderlands, Tales from the Borderlands - Fandom
Genre: Blow Jobs, Breathplay, M/M, Modern AU, Praise Kink, Trans Character, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 13:12:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4608081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ymirjotunn/pseuds/ymirjotunn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Based in the world of callmearcturus / donotchoosesidesyet's Derby AU, where Jack is not the world's shittiest dad, Rhys is Angel's hired mom, and feelings are replaced by fucking.)</p><p>Rhys means to go home. Jack means to keep him right where he belongs, and he's not afraid to play dirty to make sure that happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	long as you know who you belong to

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Opening Night at the Wrecking Ballroom](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4678766) by [callmearcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus). 



> Don't worry, this AU will all make sense soon enough. Just enjoy the ride. 8)
> 
> Title from Beyonce ft. Drake's "Mine", which is definitely recommended listening.

Rhys keeps unlocking and re-locking his phone, like the flick of his thumb is a nervous tic. Maybe it is, though Jack can’t figure out what he’s nervous about. It’s Friday; he’s had the whole week to be nervous. Not to mention that work’s over, and he hasn’t heard any disaster stories, and Angel didn’t text him to bring Ben & Jerry’s, so...what gives.

“Ange go to bed already?” he asks, letting his bag drop. Since she’s not tucked up against Rhys’ side, commandeering his smartphone or the remote or his palm computer, and since it’s two in the morning and past her bedtime, he already knows the answer is yes, but it’s still worth asking.

Rhys nearly drops his phone at the sound of his voice, but recovers with a shaking hand. “Yeah. Yeah, a few hours ago. You’re a little late.” He stands, tucking the phone into his pocket.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, cupcake.”

For a moment they stand there, facing off, and then Rhys rubs the back of his neck with his flesh hand and laughs, nervous and overloud in the quiet of the living room. “So,” he says. “Since you’re home. I should…”

Jack interrupts him with a raised hand, an open palm, and Rhys’ mouth snaps shut. Jack smiles, a little crooked, and gestures for Rhys to come on over.

He does, in small steps, and when he’s close enough Jack reaches out to grab him by the chin, tilts his head up. Rhys doesn’t resist, practically lifts his head faster than Jack’s hand can guide it, and it seems to take him a minute to realize he’s staring right into Jack’s eyes but as soon as it hits him his eyes flick away, trained somewhere behind Jack’s shoulder.

“Ah-ah,” Jack said, soft. “Look at me, kitten.”

Rhys looks at him again, eyes half-lidded, caught somewhere between sleep and sex. It hits him - the phone thing was, crap, that wasn’t a nervous tic, that was him trying to stay awake. Jack isn’t sure how to feel about that. Doesn’t even understand the implications well enough to ballpark it, honestly.

He tucks the thought away, to worry about later, leans forward instead. Rhys’ lips part, just barely, and a moment later Jack feels the flutter of an uncertain hand on his waist. Okay. He’s used to the invitation, the look on Rhys’ face that’s like _if you had asked, I’d already be on my knees_. He’s not used to...this.

He’s not _opposed_ to it, either, it’s just. New.

But that’s way too much to think about, and he doesn’t have his fingers brushing the soft skin of Rhys’ throat so he can stand here and _think_ so he crosses the divide between them, kisses him so hard they both stumble backwards but it doesn’t matter because Jack is biting and Rhys’ hand at his waist has gone from fluttering-light to clutching, grabbing, at his hips, _crack_ , that’s Rhys’ skull slamming back against one of the pillars at the entrance to the kitchen but he doesn’t seem to care, doesn’t even take a breath, keeps pushing against Jack like he has any kind of leverage.

Rhys doesn’t even want leverage. He just wants to feel Jack pushing back.

Jack pulls back for a minute, framing Rhys’ face with hands firm on his jaw, studies his open mouth. “You wanna be a good boy for me, sweetness?” he says.

Rhys nods, mouth still open, jaw loose under Jack’s hands, breathless and wordless. Yeah he does. _Yeah_ he does.

Jack smiles, works his fingers up the back of Rhys’ neck, tangling them just slightly in his hair. “‘course you do,” he murmurs, tugging a little. “All right, c’mere.”

He’s entertained the notion of getting a collar and leash for Rhys at least three times before, but so far it’s hardly seemed necessary. Rhys follows him like a puppy already, leans his neck into Jack’s hand sometimes without even thinking about it; a collar and leash would practically be overkill. It’s like that, deferential, automatic, how Rhys follows him to the bedroom, mindless but moving with direction all the same.

Rhys reaches the bed, stops and turns to Jack, like he’s waiting for permission. Cute, but not necessary. Jack steps up close, pressing the backs of Rhys’ knees against the edge of the mattress, and Rhys opens his mouth like he wants to say something. Closes it again.

“Been waiting all day to see you,” he says, low, keeping a steady gaze on Rhys’ eyes. They’re pressed right up against each other, limbs lined up just so, the heat between them meeting and coalescing between their legs. “You have no _idea_.”

He kisses him then, gentler this time, thumb stroking the soft triangle of skin beneath Rhys’ chin, so delicate it feels like it could tear with just a little pressure.

Rhys is touching him again, he notices. Another tentative hand on his waist. He doesn’t say anything about it, doesn’t _think_ about it, why does Rhys keep making him want to think about things, he hates it, he _hates_ it, so he jams a knee between Rhys’ legs and pushes and it’s so easy, so _beautifully_ easy the way he goes down. Sprawls on his back on the bed, eyes closed and mouth open and legs spread.

“Look at you, pretty boy. Falling right into place.” Jack places his hands on Rhys’ hips, transferring his weight to the palms of his hands.

“Are you,” Rhys starts, and stops again, breath catching in his throat as Jack’s hand comes to rest at his collarbone, thumb and pointer finger framing the delicate lines of his bones in a V.

He’s used to being the one in charge, but he’s never been able to get used to the way Rhys comes undone for him. Every time it’s just as new and heady a feeling as it always is, watching all the breath rush out of him, like every string that pulls him taut has just snapped, unraveled. Rhys’ jaw slackens and his lips part, that silent invitation again; he raises his arms, obedient without even having an order to obey.

He slips off Rhys’ shirt, runs hands up his belly, fingers skipping over the thin pink lines that arc up along his ribcage. Rhys’ eyes are still closed, his limbs still so lax that Jack imagines he could form Rhys into any shape he wanted with the lightest touch.

And there’s proof to that: when he nudges at Rhys’ hip, Rhys shifts with his touch, moving until he’s lying up against the headboard of the bed, eyes half-open and staring, expectant.

Jack grins at him. “Good boy,” he murmurs, leaning forward to brush hair out of Rhys’ face. “Just what I asked for, and I didn’t even have to _ask_.” His hand drifts down to Rhys’ neck, ghosts over his larynx. Rhys swallows under his thumb and for a moment Jack is seized with the thought that Rhys is genuinely reading his freaking mind until he remembers that there are two people in this godforsaken world who know how to push his buttons, and Rhys - not typically a button-pusher, more of a mess of buttons all his own - somehow ended up being one of them.

Rhys licks his lips and Jack doesn’t move, but he’s paying attention as Rhys says, “So.”

“So,” Jack repeats, voice even, rippling his fingers on the side of Rhys’ neck just to remind him that he’s there.

“Are we gonna fuck?”

Jack smirks. “Are you gonna ask nicely?”

Rhys swallows again, slow, eyes locked on Jack’s, and Jack’s cock jumps at the way Rhys’ throat moves under his hands. “I figured this was a pretty nice way to ask.”

Jack leans back, surveying him. His legs are spread wide, arms limp against the pillows he’s up against, head tilted back just enough to show off the pale skin of his neck. It is a pretty good look on him, but a lot of looks are pretty good on Rhys.

“Eh,” he says finally. “We’re gonna do _something_. That enough for you?”

Rhys smiles, just barely. “Probably.”

Jack leans in, resting his forearms on Rhys’ shoulders so he can tuck his thumbs nice and neat right where his jaw hinges. “ _Probably_. Ye of little faith.”

Rhys is on his game now, grins just wide enough for Jack to feel Rhys’ jaw shifting under his fingers. He glares, moving his hands so Rhys’ll wipe the _smug_ off his face, one hand on Rhys’ shoulder, the other ghosting fingertips along his lips.

“We feeling mouthy tonight?” he says, low, and Rhys’ eyes go a little darker.

Yeah, Jack knows his way around some buttons, too.

And then Rhys opens his mouth, leans forward and takes two fingers between his lips. His tongue drifts along the peaks of Jack’s fingertips, curling between them, and his eyes are fixed on Jack’s face, waiting for the inevitable reaction--

Jack’s never been one to disappoint. He slides his free hand into Rhys’ hair, bearing down with his palm. “Down, boy,” he hisses, and Rhys opens his mouth obediently, sliding down the pillows a bit.

He licks his lips, mouth just barely open, and Jack inhales. “You know the drill,” he says, as conversationally as he possibly can while unzipping his jeans. “If you’re good, you can get off. If you’re bad…”

Rhys’ eyes have gone a little wider, a little less focused, like he’s not sure where he should be looking, what his hands should be doing.

Jack grins down at him, brushes hair out of his face. “But you won’t be bad, will you, sweetheart?”

Rhys seems confused for a minute, like the very concept is alien to him, and blinks, regaining his composure. “No, I--I’ll be good.”

“Oh, I _know_ you’ll be good.” Jack falls back to pull off his jeans and boxers, eyes flicking to Rhys’ when his dick is out. He’s staring, shameless, mouth open like he’s _waiting_ for it.

God, he probably _is_.

Jack straddles his chest, knees tucked under Rhys’ arms, watching Rhys as he stares, settling hands on Jack’s hips. He’s unfairly pretty like this, under Jack, body tense with anticipation, and it only gets worse when he shifts between Jack’s legs to get a better angle, leans forward to kiss the tip of his cock.

At first the warmth of his mouth isn’t _nearly_ enough, so unbearably, unbelievably gentle that Jack wants to cut the crap and just make him choke on his dick already, but then Rhys tugs at his hips, pulls him forward, takes him into his mouth _proper_. At first his eyes are still locked on Jack’s, but he moves closer still, enough that it’s a weird angle to keep watching his face, and his eyes flutter shut.

Jack’s breath catches, just once before he gets a hold of himself again. He’s lying on the back of Rhys’ tongue and Rhys isn’t moving, just barely swallowing around him. Jack has his hand threaded through Rhys’ hair and ready to pull when Rhys moves again, takes a deep deep breath and moves down further and Jack is pretty sure he can feel the back of Rhys’ throat now, warm and soft and slick and. Oh.

Rhys looks like one of those marble statues they have on display in art museums, in a porno kind of way. Pale veins crisscrossing his eyelids, his hands white-knuckled and thumbs angled along Jack’s hipbones. He’s weirdly focused, creases at the edges of his eyes, and Jack doesn’t want to move, like that might screw up whatever’s happening right now, might hurt Rhys in a way he’s not into, so he just makes a soft noise of approval, fists his hand in Rhys’ hair gently, encouragingly.

Rhys makes a noise even softer and more approving and pulls back, taking another breath as he does. Jack hums, as close to a moan as he’ll let himself get, and stills his hips. He figures Rhys has this.

But Rhys pulls off, entirely (doesn’t even wipe his mouth, looks friggin’ _obscene_ like this, spit and precum on his parted lips) and shakes his head, just barely. “Fuck me,” he says, voice a little hoarse. “Just--I practiced. It’s fine.”

“Uh.” Jack’s eyebrows have gone way up. “Fuck you like…”

“Fuck my _mouth_ ,” Rhys says, slowly, as if he wants to make sure Jack’s hearing every syllable crystal clear.

He’s...pretty sure he is, miraculously. “What happened to asking nicely?”

Rhys licks his lips, visibly swallowing. “ _Please_ fuck my mouth. Jack.”

“ _There’s_ those manners,” Jack whispers, carding a hand through Rhys’ hair, watches him arch his back forward to take him again, slowly, slowly, with such a delicacy that Jack has to remind himself that Rhys _wants_ to be pushed, has _asked_ for it, can tap out if it hurts in the crappy kinda way.

So he draws back, and Rhys opens his mouth a little more, like he’s made to make space. His shoulders are a little tense, but Jack figures he’s allowed to be a little nervous.

He cants his hips forward again, making contact with the soft skin of the back of Rhys’ throat, and in exchange he gets this gorgeous noise that’s half a moan and half a helpless attempt at a breath. “Good boy,” he murmurs. “Good, good, so good--”

Rhys makes another helpless noise, hands going slack on Jack’s hips, lets himself be pushed up closer against the pillows by every thrust. His head thuds against the headboard, but he just moans again, his jaw lax around Jack. He’s not even bothering to suck anymore, doesn’t really need to.

Jack isn’t used to this, this everywhere-heat, the way Rhys _looks_ right now.“Gonna come,” he says in an exhale. His hands are jittering through Rhys’ hair, thumbs curving behind his ears, fingers at the nape of his neck. “Rhys.”

Rhys’ eyes are closed but he arches forward a little more, hollowing his cheeks as best he can with so much inside, and he swallows again and again when Jack comes, so desperate and _hungry_ that Jack fumbles his hands light around Rhys’ throat just to feel the way it surges warm under his fingertips.

When he slides out Rhys barely even looks real. His hands have dropped to the bed, gone slack, and his chest is heaving with the strain of breathing properly again. Jack moves from straddling his chest to his hips, gives his lungs a little room to function.

Rhys’ eyes are still closed when he speaks, voice raw: “I want.” He doesn’t say _what_ he wants, but his hips are jerking under Jack, his stomach rippling with the effort of trying to find friction. It’s not hard to follow.

“Yeah?” Jack shoves a knee between Rhys’ thighs and curls his hands around Rhys’ neck. “This what you want?”

Rhys doesn’t respond, just swallows, throat quivering under Jack’s hands, hips juddering up against his thigh. So Jack kisses him, grinds his knee up against the wet heat between Rhys’ legs. He’s soaked through his boxers, a little through his sweatpants, and for a moment Jack gets caught up in the image of Rhys pulling on a spare pair of Jack’s boxers before he feels Rhys leaning into his hands, humming low so the vibration of his voice curls through Jack’s bones, wanting.

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, biting hard at his lower lip. “Yeah. I got you.” He ramps up the pressure, with his hands and his legs, yanks a strangled cry out of Rhys. “ _Yeah_ , sugar. Like--” He’s distracted again, because Rhys has a damn good mouth, and because he’s curved up against Jack’s body like he’s got to be touching as much of him as physics will allow.

There’s a hand at Jack’s wrist all of a sudden and for a terrifying moment Jack’s worried he’s hurt Rhys, recoiling, but Rhys grabs his other hand and keeps it up against his throat even as he shoves the other one down. “More,” he says, his voice paper-flimsy and torn.

Jack laughs, his shoulders relaxing again. “Please?”

“ _Jack_ ,” Rhys says, warning or begging or both.

As much as Jack likes it when Rhys asks nicely, he also really likes that tone of voice, so it’s not too much of a sacrifice to push his free hand under both waistbands, run his thumb up along Rhys, slick and warm.

Rhys arches against him, lets out a breathless noise against the pressure at his throat, and another when Jack traces a circle around his clit. “ _Jack_ ,” he says again, voice broken and halting. Jack _likes_ that, and he likes the noises Rhys can’t seem to stop making when he grinds his palm between his legs and squeezes his throat in tandem, once, twice, three times, a steady pulse that’s making Rhys _writhe_.

He goes still suddenly, every part of him so tense that Jack’s not sure he’d be capable of breathing even without the hand on his neck. His hips jerk for a moment, rolling up in spasms into Jack’s touch and away again, but he stills again, exhaling more air than Jack thought his lungs could hold.

Jack waits a beat before he lets up on Rhys’ neck. It’s probably gonna bruise.

 _God_ , as if he needed to be any prettier.

Jack rubs at the juncture of his neck and shoulders, that little curve there. It’s too blank for his liking, but he’s not sure how Rhys would feel about a purposeful mark on such an obvious spot. Doesn’t want to try his luck too many times tonight. “You good, cupcake?”

Rhys nods, soundless. If all his knots were undone before, then Jack’s retied them tighter and snipped them all again in the past ten minutes. He’s weirdly proud of himself for it.

They lie there for what seems like days, but it’s probably only a few minutes. They’re so close that Jack can watch the faint blurs of fingerprints forming on the pale skin of his neck.

“C’n I,” he mumbles, faltering.

Jack snorts, running a hand through his hair again. “Sounds like someone shoved a weedwhacker down your throat.”

Rhys grimaces, but his eyes are smiling. “Ha. Water?”

“Yeah.” Jack peels away from him, and he can’t resist grabbing some fresh boxers from atop his dresser and tossing them at the bed. “Since yours are a little messy.”

Rhys makes a face at him, but by the time Jack leaves the room he’s tugging off his pants, so he doesn’t seem to have a problem with it. It’s weird, how just that glimpse feels like something went off behind Jack’s ribs.

He grabs Rhys a glass of water, and tries not to think. That was the point of what they did, right? To not think. Or...to get Rhys to sleep here, or something. He can’t remember anymore. Maybe it was just because Rhys was there, and cute, and because Jack worked himself up during a meeting today thinking about Rhys on the couch and because he was bouncing his knee all through a presentation about stocks. Maybe he--crud, see, he’s _thinking_ again. Jack’s just not cut out for that. He’s better at making Rhys’ breath flicker in his chest.

God, he’s actually _really_ good at that, gonna have fantasy fodder for weeks now.

He returns and Rhys is standing, tugging his shirt back on.

It takes a moment, but Rhys looks up, his face easing into a smile. “Thanks,” he rasps, but Jack’s not really listening.

“Going somewhere?” he asks, as casually as he can.

Rhys shrugs. “Home,” he says, licking the water off his lips. “Figured--don’t wanna impose.” He takes another long drink, and doesn’t meet Jack’s eyes.

Jack stands there for a second, trying not to grind his teeth, because it’ll just give him a headache. When Rhys has nearly drained the glass he grabs him by his flesh arm and tugs him back towards the bed. “Jesus,” he says, and thankfully he only sounds exasperated, not, like, _invested_. “Don’t wear jeans in the bed. Not gonna be comfortable for either of us.”

“Jack--”

“Rhys.”

He doesn’t really know what his voice sounded like, there. Can’t read it too well. It’s late.

Rhys lets out a long breath. “You have eggs in the fridge?”

“Yeah. Obviously.” Jack tries not to let out a long breath when Rhys sits on the edge of the mattress to shuck his jeans.

Rhys lies down, eyes finally finding Jack’s face. “I’ll make pancakes, then.”

Jack lies down next to him, tugging the blanket over both of them. There’s marks on his neck, too faint and not enough, but they’re there. He’s Jack’s. Faintly, not enough, but he’s Jack’s. 

“‘kay,” he says, at last, tangling his leg in Rhys’ so there’s no way for him to wriggle away. “Ange’s gonna like that.” She will, no doubt - kid loves pancakes, Jack just doesn’t always have time to make ‘em - but he’s thinking more along the lines of _he’s_ gonna like that, waking up in the morning with Rhys twisted up in Jack’s sheets and Jack’s boxers, slapping Rhys’ ass surreptitiously when Angel is setting the table, pointing out his marks indelible on Rhys’ neck and watching that flush creep over his collarbones as he notices them.

He’s not in over his head. He’s _not_.


End file.
